


Collision Course

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: The first time they almost fuck is awful.It’s awful. It isn’t hot, isn’t nice. Isn’t even something he wants. It’s a goddamn collision course. But like all good crashes, he’s powerless to stop it. He braces for impact and tips his face to that supernova light.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 48
Kudos: 231





	Collision Course

The first time they almost fuck is awful.

It’s  _ awful. _ It isn’t hot, isn’t nice. Isn’t even something he  _ wants. _ It’s a goddamn collision course. But like all good crashes, he’s powerless to stop it. He braces for impact, tips his face to that supernova light.

They didn’t plan it. If he tries to trace back the course of his night, he’s hard-pressed to even manage it. It comes to him in bits and pieces, in flashes. The Impala beforehand, checking his gun and tucking extra salt rounds into his back pocket. The cemetery with an unnatural wind whipping up around them, cutting-cold and biting into his skin. The spirit. The headstone. His face, split open and aching after he was pitched into said headstone full-on with his ears still ringing. Salt. Flame. The drive back to the motel with blood in his eyes and his hand swelling up. Two fingers that may or may not be dislocated.

_ Normal. _ Shitty, but normal.

Then this.

They get in the door, and Sam is  dragging. He needs a shower, but more than that, he needs to sleep.

But then there’s Dean. Dean grimacing as he peels off the layers of his own tattered, bloody clothes. The jacket is fine, but the shirt underneath is cashed. It sticks wetly to his skin, and Sam hears the soft suck of breath when the flimsy cloth pulls away from where it’s stuck to a long, ugly gash across Dean’s chest. It might need stitches. Might not. Too hard to tell until Dean washes away some of that blood, which means he gets first shower, probably. He should.

Sam’s face still fucking hurts something fierce. He raises his good hand to prod at the skin, which feels hot and tight.

It’s just a scent. Such a simple thing, the smell of his brother, a scent he’s smelled a thousand times before. Dean reeks, really. They both do, fear and adrenaline making them both sweat like pigs, but his nostrils flare all the same. There’s something so intimately familiar about it, a scent that traces back and back and back, through years and kills of every kind. Through separations and coming-togethers. It’s just so. It.

So, no, he doesn’t plan it. Doesn’t think he has it in him to plan something so bone-headed, really, because this? It’s fucking stupid. Suicidal, even. Wrecking the one haven he calls his own, the one person on whom he relies for love, even if they don’t ever say it—can’t ever say it, but who needs to, really, when you’ve got a love like that?

And it’s not like  _ this.  _ It isn’t. It really, really isn’t, but fuck, he just needs. Just  _ needs. _

So he steps right into Dean’s space, right up close to him, and Dean never sees it coming. Of course he doesn’t, because it’s fucking stupid. There’s nothing  _ to _ see because it’s not like Sam’s pined for this. Not like he wants this, but he’s pressing his face into his brother’s, mashing their mouths together, and fuck his face hurts. His hand, his hand when he reaches it up to tangle in the back of Dean’s hair, too short to properly grab, but fuck if Sam doesn’t try.

He swallows down Dean’s shocked gasp, the one he knows leads into  _ dude, what the hell? _ And he kisses his brother for all he’s worth.

Dean doesn’t kiss back, not really, but it almost doesn’t matter because that’s so not the fucking  point.

It’s gross, it is. It feels like kissing his brother because it is kissing his brother, wet and dirty. With tongue. He has the stupid impulse to spit, or dry heave, or go and guzzle mouthwash. He does none of those things.

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His hands are still filthy, so it does more harm than good. Dean eyes him warily, breathing hard and heavy, and Sam feels a sick thrill of pride for it. For  _ I did that. _ Look at me now, Dad.

He has to tamp down a twisted giggle that threatens to burble up out of nowhere. Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought.

“Sammy?”

Dean’s looking at him, waiting for an explanation, waiting like there  _ could  _ be any explanation. Like Sam’ll come up with some good reason why he just fucking kissed his brother.

Sam just shakes his head.

“Sammy?” Dean says again, trying for joking, probably, but it comes out too high and tight.

Sam just shakes his head harder.

He wants to do it again. He wants to never do that again. He clenches his fists tight by his sides, his one bad hand screaming pain that turns his stomach. It’s almost a relief, after everything.

In the end, he’s an abject coward. “I gotta. I’m gonna. I’mgonnagoshower.”

He says it all in one word, and the bathroom door bangs shut behind him before Dean has the chance to say anything at all. He leaves before he can see Dean’s face change—with hope or revulsion or horror. He’s a coward, and he doesn’t want to know.

* * *

He pops his fingers back into place on his own, a slow, nauseating tug that slips displaced joints back into their sockets. His whole hand is swollen. It’ll probably be worse by morning. The knock to his face hadn’t punched out any teeth, but one feels alarmingly loose, and there’s a hellacious bruise swelling in the center of his forehead. He looks like a fucking wreck.

Dean is already in bed by the time Sam gets out; dirt, blood, and all; the sliver of light from the bathroom falling across his form on the bed. His back is to Sam, and Sam swears he can read the tight tension even in that bow-arc of a body.

He feels a pang of guilt for that. Dean might need stitches. Dean’s going to bloody the sheets and some poor maid is going to have to clean up after them.

“Shower’s free,” he says to the empty room.

Dean doesn’t respond, and Sam guesses he didn’t really expect him to.

* * *

If he’d thought about it at all (which he’ll never admit to, even under pain of death) Sam would’ve assumed that their first time would’ve been like that. Bloody. Desperate. After a case when they’re still rattled and worn, all their better angels fled in search of shelter.

It isn’t.

Their first time, when it happens, happens on a day when they’re bumming around yet another motel room that blends in with all the ones that came before and all the ones that have yet to come. When they’re whole and relatively hale, nothing troubling them but the ghost of wounds past—a phantom ache here, a little twinge there.

They’re sprawled over the same bed, eating shitty microwave popcorn that coats their fingers in sticky, yellow grease. They’re watching the rerun of  _ Top Gun _ on a domed TV that’s been outdated since it was installed, leaning into each other and snickering at the lines, occasionally reaching over the side of the bed to grab a half-warm beer because the mini-fridge in this room doesn’t work for shit.

They look at each other at the same time, gazes locking like bumping into your oldest friend in a crowded room.

Dean’s lips are slightly parted. They’re so close that Sam can smell the popcorn on his breath, cheap and nutty. He leans forward the last few inches and brushes their lips together. He pulls back and waits.

Dean breathes a little faster, staring at his mouth, and Sam thinks he’ll ask  _ why _ again. Sam still doesn’t know what he’ll say. There’s a second when Dean’s face goes so intense that Sam thinks Dean might punch him instead, but he just leans in. He takes Sam’s face in his hand, tipping his chin up with gentle fingers. He brings his mouth back, and they slot together so nicely.

There’s still the nausea. There’s still the abject screaming in his brain, in his gut, along the base of his spine that this is  _ wrong. _ He feels it in every fiber of his being, but being made of demon blood is wrong too. They can  _ do _ wrong. It’s all the rest of it they can’t do.

So Sam tilts his head back and lets Dean control the kiss. They kiss shallowly for long minutes, sweet and soft, hardly more than sharing breath while Tom Cruise drones on in the background.

Sam parts his lips, and Dean licks into his mouth, and Sam makes a tiny, gut-wrenching sound of want. It’s gunshot-loud in the quiet room. It’s life-ruining. World-ending.

Dean takes it as encouragement. He rolls them over so Sam’s flat on his back, staring up at Dean with wide eyes.

“Dean?” It sounds so unsure. Sounds like he’s eight again, learning about monsters for the first time. It’s like he’s twelve and forever looking to his big brother, trying to figure out how to act, how to move. How to  _ be _ in this world.

“You wanna stop?” Dean asks.

Yes or no question. Sam can do that. He’s suddenly so blindingly, inescapably grateful that he shakes his head.

“Alright then.”

And Dean doesn’t stop, and Sam doesn’t have to ask, which makes it basically perfect.

Dean doesn’t touch him, not right away. He keeps his body off Sam, even hovering above him like a dark-eyed predator. He keeps his hips angled carefully away, his arms bracketing Sam on either side, a beautiful cage made of flesh. Sam can see the muscles in Dean’s arms cording where he holds himself propped on his elbows.

He drops his head and plunders Sam’s mouth, tongue seeking and probing. It’s good. It’s so good, strange and devastating, and Sam’s reduced to a thing of want, hips blindly seeking friction, canting off the bed to seek their mate. It’s obscene. It’s fucking embarrassing, is what it is.

He still can’t get enough.

He gets his arms around Dean, slithers his hands up until he can cup the dense muscle of Dean’s back. He slides them down and slips them under a warm, threadbare shirt and the skin underneath feels like perdition. Like every Do Not Enter sign in every town they’ve ever crossed. He slides his hands up Dean’s bare back, counting the ribs beneath his fingers, lost in the feel of it. He makes another sound against Dean’s mouth.

When Dean pulls back this time, they’re both panting like they can’t get enough.

“You got the hots for me, baby brother?” Dean asks, making a joke out of it because of course he is. Everything’s a joke to Dean.

Sam groans. Way to kill the mood, because ew, and did he  _ ask _ to be reminded? He shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like? ‘Cause I gotta be honest, I’m not seeing a lot of other options.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Sam says, with all the finality of a kill shot. “It’s like that.”

Dean swallows, stunned into silence fucking  _ finally, _ and Sam can’t help but feel a little smug about it.

He can’t help but taunt, just a little, and that’s always his problem, isn’t it? Him and his big mouth. “Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

And then Dean growls, and Dean’s pinning him into the mattress, hips grinding down against Sam’s finally,  _ finally. _ It’s friction and heat and the rigid, hard line of his brother’s dick in his pants, and Sam’s turned on even if he isn’t sure he wants to be.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to be sure, not when Dean’s taking him for a ride. He’s seen the way Dean is with girls, the way he turns on the charm, the full wattage intensity of Dean’s regard brought to bear on wayside women who never, ever deserve it. It’s fucking dizzying to have it turned on him. It’s everything he always thought it would be, and he drinks it in like it’s his by divine right. It is, isn’t it? Of course it is.

“God, fuck,” he swears into his brother’s mouth. “Fuck. Just fuckin’—touch me, come on.”

“Working on it, Sammy,” Dean says into his ear, voice low and full of heat. He nips at Sam’s earlobe. Licks it after to soothe the bite. His hands are everywhere, and Sam is burning up.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

It’s all just so much. Dean leans back, sitting on his haunches to strip his shirt off, and Sam leans up just enough to rip his own shirt off, fighting with the layers, ending up with his arms trapped in the sleeves of his flannel.

He sees the glint in Dean’s eye and knows what it means, feels a prescient shiver run down his spine at the way Dean’s looking at him, all spread out like a meal.

“Would you look at that,” Dean says, raking his eyes over Sam stretched out under him, arms knotted in his own shirt, chest heaving like he’s run for miles.

He’s sitting on Sam, holding him neatly pinned by the hot, solid bulk of him. The whole of his weight rests neatly on Sam, legs spread on either side of Sam’s hips. The press of Dean’s weight feels so fucking good against his dick.

Sam can’t quite meet the intensity of his gaze. He looks away. It’s too much, too fast. He chokes on his own second thoughts, ice cold indecision breaking over him like a tidal wave.

“Little help?” he asks weakly.

“I dunno, Sammy. Think I like you like this. But maybe if you ask real nice.”

“Oh, bite me.” Sarcasm comes quick to his tongue, reflexive. It’s instinct, even now, bred on a lifetime of little-brother sniping.

Dean’s eyes are laughing when he leans forward. Sam’s breath catches in his throat, and it shouldn’t do that. Dean shouldn’t be able to do that to him. Dean licks at Sam’s nipple, and it feels like touching a live wire. He bucks up into Dean, a thin whine crawling from his mouth. And then Dean closes his teeth around it and bites, and Sam’s a fucking goner.

He jerks and groans, feeling an embarrassing flood of precome fill sticky against his boxers.

“Like that, Sammy?” Dean sounds so satisfied. It’s not smug. It’s something beyond smug, something small and proud and radiant like the fucking sun.

It twists the knife of how wrong this is. How can it not, when it’s the exact tone of voice Dean used when he taught Sam how to tie his shoes. How to pitch a ball. How to handle a gun.

“Yeah,” Sam pants, keeping his voice down like there’s anyone who might hear and care. He can hear. He cares. “Yeah, I fucking like it.”

He fists his hand in the back of Dean’s hair and pulls him up from where he’s latched onto Sam’s nipple, laving it with attention, sucking and licking and scraping his stubble over it, and Sam’s going to lose his fucking mind.

He tugs and tugs, pulling past the point where it must start to hurt, and Dean makes a small sound, and it straight-up kills him. Just like that, Sam knows he’s an addict for life. Dean is quiet in bed, apparently, when he’s not putting on a show (when he’s fucking his brother like Dad might rise from the grave to kill them both) but Sam just  _ knows _ that from then on, he’ll do anything.  _ Anything _ to pull that sound and others like it from Dean’s throat.

He wants to play a goddamn symphony. Wants to hear every nuance of every sound Dean is capable of making, that Sam is capable of making him make. He wants to fucking catalog them by tone, a whole compendium of  _ Dean. _

This is so fucked. It’s not that he wants to fuck his brother. Not even that he likes it, exactly. It’s just that he wants to crawl up into Dean’s skin and make a home for himself there, burrow deep between ribs and pull Dean snug around him. It’s just that he’s spent years trying, years figuring, and this is the closest he can get.

Their pants and boxers go flying off the bed, hitting the ugly lamp on the bedside table and making it wobble dangerously. Neither of them spare it a second glance. Sam yanks his arms out of his tangled shirts, and he can finally, finally get his hands on Dean.

He pushes Dean down on the bed, and Dean goes, shockingly obliging, shutting up for once in his goddamn life. He looks at Sam like Sam is  _ the _ answer, and Sam runs his hands down the front of Dean’s chest, the hard clench of muscle in his abdomen, barely papered over with a thin layer of fat. He ducks his head and bites open-mouthed kisses to Dean’s front, utterly indiscriminate in their placement. He doesn’t care. He just wants his mouth on Dean, as much of him as possible. He wants to lick up the salty-mild taste of skin on an idle day.

He does something that tickles, scrapes his teeth over the lightly furred skin of Dean’s lower stomach, and Dean rasps a chuckle. 

“Huh,” Sam says.

Dean’s body tenses below Sam, thighs clenching, and Sam does it again, slower.

“Sammy, what the hell,” Dean laughs, kicking a leg out and bringing down a hand to push Sam away, but Sam is having none of it.

He bats Dean’s arm aside casually, plants himself and pins Dean’s hips with a big hand on either side. “Stay still.”

“Or what?” Dean asks, a spark of a challenge in the question.

“Or nothing.” Sam bites him again, relishing the way Dean swears and jerks. “Didn’t know you were ticklish.” And then, because he’s obviously an insane person, because he’s suddenly, blindingly  _ jealous, _ and he’s obviously lost his mind, “Did they know you were ticklish?”

_ “Ah— _ hah,  _ Sam,” _ Dean pants out. He lifts his head up, not following. “Did who know?”

Sam shrugs. Licks a proprietary stripe over Dean’s iliac crest so it gleams spit-shiny in the light. “Cassie. Lisa. Anyone.”

Dean looks at Sam like he’s trying to work him out. He shakes his head. “No,” he says slowly.

Sam relaxes, letting out a tense breath that had somehow gotten trapped inside his body. He flexes his fingers against Dean’s hips, and Dean’s hard dick bobs, nudging against Sam. Sam feels a frisson of fear at the thought. He licks his lips. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Sam ducks his head. “Yeah, okay.”

It feels like something has been settled, although he couldn’t say what. He feels a little bit like the dog that chased the car. Now that he’s got it, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with it. What do you do when you’ve got your brother hard and naked and spread out before you, looking at you with all that blinding affection?

It could kill a man.

Sam knows what comes next in theory. He’s been with girls, and he’s seen porn, thank you very much. He knows the mechanics of the thing. He still has no earthly clue how he’s actually supposed to  _ do _ it, but he’s still a little brother, and there isn’t a dare alive he’s backed down from. He doesn’t intend to start now, even if the dare is only with himself. Only in his mind.

“Let me,” Dean says.

“Okay,” Sam says, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “Okay.”

Dean pulls him down and maneuvers them so they’re lying side by side, face to face. They share the same air, and it’s so much—so intense that Sam has to shut his eyes, squinting them closed like a little kid at a scary movie. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he thinks he might be sick.

“Sammy, hey. Look at me.”

He shuts his eyes tighter. Resolves to wait him out.

But Sam can never wait Dean out—never could, really—so eventually he opens his eyes.

“Hi,” he says dumbly.

“Hey.” Dean’s face is soft, but he doesn’t smile. It’d feel wrong now, anyway. Too much like a joke, and this isn’t the place for jokes. Too much like sacred ground.

Sam’s eyes are open, which means he has to watch as Dean brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks the first two in. His cheeks hollow as he wets them. The sound is slick and obscene, and a black hole opens in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

He doesn’t have time to figure out what it means. Dean grabs Sam’s leg and hitches it over his hip so he’s held open. So Dean can trail his fingers down past Sam’s balls, back and back until he gets just  _ there. _ The tip of his wet fingers touches the sensitive pucker of Sam’s hole, and Sam twitches violently.

They’re still looking at each other. Dean’s still looking at him, seeing every flicker and twist of expression that plays across his face. There’s nowhere to hide, and it rises up in him like burning, a huge, horrible feeling that might be kin to shame and might live in the neighborhood of desire.

“Okay?” Dean asks, and Sam can’t answer.

His mouth is too dry. He can’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. Dean pushes in, a first finger finding its way past Sam’s entrance, opening him up, and this is so. So—

His brother’s finger is in his ass, buried all the way to the last knuckle. It feels huge and invasive, his inner walls being pried apart like nothing while Dean watches him fall apart. Dean leaves his finger there, buried to the hilt in Sam, unmoving for long moments. Like maybe he’s feeling it as much as Sam is, all the sick, twisted wonder of this moment, like the worst Disney movie alive, although Sam will never, ever ask.

When he starts to move, it’s with a dragging burn. Sam grunts, panting as Dean works him open with that dry burn of friction. Dean isn’t careful or gentle, which is good, because either one might kill him. He’s thorough, though. Thorough and methodical and when he slips another finger next to the first on the next in-stroke, pulling Sam’s insides apart and making a place for himself inside Sam’s body, Sam nudges forward. He bumps his forehead against Dean’s, resting their heads together so he can pant into Dean’s mouth.

“Dean,” he says, and it’s the first word either of them have spoken in a long while. “Dean, fuck.”

“Is it good, Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head. He shakes his head, and he doesn’t know what that  _ means, _ so he certainly doesn’t expect Dean to know. Dean’s fingers still inside him, and he can feel Dean’s sudden, tense hesitation. He can feel Dean make a decision, feel him start to pull himself free, and whatever Sam meant, he definitely didn’t mean that, so he clamps his hand around Dean’s wrist, viper-quick, and holds him in place.

He closes the space between their mouths, scant millimeters at this point. He kisses Dean and drinks him down, only relaxing when he manages to coax a deep, satisfied purr from Dean’s mouth.

They kiss for long, lazy moments, starting to find a good rhythm. Once he’s sure Dean’s not going anywhere, Sam lets go of his wrist, and Dean starts fucking into Sam with slow, shallow movements, letting Sam grind back against his hand.

It’s not long before Sam’s getting downright vocal, little noises that can’t be contained between them. He hitches his leg higher on Dean’s hip, opening himself more, drawing Dean closer. Dean’s fingers angle in a different direction, catching on something that jolts him with a sharp-hard pleasure, and Sam’s mouth goes slack.

Dean keeps kissing at him, licking into Sam’s pliant mouth, sucking on his tongue, and it’s the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Still want me to fuck you, baby?”

Sam whines at that, the tight knot of want in his belly drawing tighter at the endearment that doesn’t belong to him. It doesn’t and it does. It shouldn’t. It  _ should, _ and fuck anyone else who’s ever had it.

“Yeah. Yeah, fuck.”

“Roll over.”

Sam turns around. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. Not when his skin is tight and overheated. Not when Dean smooths a hand down his spine, letting it come to rest on the curve of Sam’s ass, proprietary and confident. Dean presses a kiss to the center of his back, dead-on between his shoulder blades with perfect aim.

There’s a light spitting sound, and Dean’s fingers are back at Sam’s sore hole, already aching from being stretched wide without enough lube. He doesn’t care. He still wants more. Wants the way Dean pushes his spit into Sam’s body, fingers working it in so Sam’s flesh can swallow it whole.

The fingers disappear. Dean spits again. Sam feels him shift away, and then there’s something blunt and hot pressing against him, impossibly big as Dean nudges it against his hole.

“It’s not gonna fit,” Sam blurts, like every cheesy porno that’s ever existed.

But Dean doesn’t make fun of him. Doesn’t do anything but press another kiss to the top of Sam’s spine, to the side of his neck. “Sure it will, baby. Hold on. Open up for me.”

And Sam does. He relaxes his body—at least as much as he can when he feels like he’s going to choke, when it feels like his skeleton is going to jump straight out of his skin. Dean’s cock is hard and unyielding, and little by little, Sam’s body makes way for it.

It feels like being pried apart. Like being rearranged and reassembled in all the ways that count. Sam’s dead sure this is going to change him forever, even as he’s equally sure that this changes nothing between them.

Because the truth of it? The truth of it is that they’ve always been this. This is just bodies. This is just spit and come, fucking and rutting and orgasms, and haven’t they spilled enough bodily fluids on each other before now anyway?

This isn’t alchemy; it’s gnosticism.

And Dean pushes in and in, a neverending, slow-burn slide, and Sam had no idea he was so big. Had no idea it would feel like this.

Dean murmurs quiet endearments into the humid space beside his ear. “That’s it, there you go. There you go, that’s a good boy,” and Sam jerks.

Dean swears a blue streak at the sudden movement, and Sam clenches around him as he finally bottoms out, his pelvis pressed tight to the meat of Sam’s ass, sealed in tight as far as he can go. Sam feels the gritty grind of pubic hair against his ass, skin against skin, and they’re so close. So  _ close— _

Neither of them move. They breathe in ragged pants, the sound of their mingled breath loud and harsh in the quiet, still room. Even the television is silent now, flashing images of static-white snow.

“Dean, I—”

He doesn’t know how that sentence was going to end. He doesn’t have to know because Dean pulls out, so far that Sam can feel the head of Dean’s dick catching on his rim, so far he thinks it’s gonna fall out. Sam makes a high, whining noise at the sudden loss, and then Dean is shoving back in, so deep he can feel it in his throat, is going to be feeling this for days.

Sam’s hands claw into the bedspread like spasming wings.  _ “Fuck.” _

Dean doesn’t ask if he’s okay, doesn’t let up, just sets a punishing rhythm that jars Sam’s teeth and makes his insides go liquid molten.

“Holy fuck.” Sam reaches back blindly, pawing at his brother. He contorts his arm to touch, a sudden, blind need to get his hands on Dean’s skin. His hand lands on Dean’s ass, and he flexes his fingers, digging into the muscle with bruising grip. “Holy fuck.”

Dean just growls and bites him, right at the top of his spine, the place where neck and shoulder join. He gets Sam in his teeth and doesn’t let go, worrying the skin until Sam knows he’ll have a livid bruise for days.

Sam pushes his hips back into Dean’s, setting a counterpoint to Dean’s rhythm, finally finding his bearings and giving as good as he gets. He fucks himself on Dean’s cock, milking him for all he’s worth, hunting for more of those sounds he now knows live in Dean’s chest.

_ Mine, _ he thinks savagely.  _ All fucking mine. _

He might be saying it out loud—might be, or at least Dean’s feeling it too because Sam can pick out words there, mouthed into the sore, chewed arc of his neck. A softly growled, “Yours. Fuckin’ yours, c’mon, Sammy. Come on.”

Sam hasn’t touched himself until now. His hand has stayed firmly plastered to the bed, or to Dean, the other wedged beneath their bodies. His cock bobs with every thrust, angry-red and neglected. He reaches down and gets a hand around it, gritting his teeth at the sudden new sensation. It feels like going cross-eyed, like the moment before a sneeze, larva going entirely liquid before bursting winged from a cocoon.

“Dean, I’m gonna. I’m gonna—holy fuck—”

“Do it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Sammy. Do it, come for me.”

The cliff’s edge is in sight. A few more thrusts, a few more white-out, slack-jawed moments of this kind of unbearable intimacy, and Sam tips over. It’s the fact of Dean’s dick in his ass. It’s the tight ring of his own fist that he’s fucking into. It’s the blinding realization that there’s no space between them now—no space at all.

* * *

The comedown is a fucking bitch. It’s sticky as fuck, for one thing. Sam makes a face as Dean’s dick slips out of his ass, soft and slimy, the worst kind of slithering thing. There’s a gush of liquid right after.

Sam makes a face. “Dude,  _ gross.” _

Dean rolls his eyes. “You weren’t complaining literally two seconds ago.”

“Two seconds ago, it was still hot.”

“Why are you such a bitch?”

“Because I have to put up with you. I’m practically a saint. They should give me a medal.”

“Yeah, yeah. Because you’re such a peach yourself, princess.” Dean smacks him on the thigh, and Sam yelps at the way it makes his sore hole clench.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

He makes it to the bathroom with as much dignity as he can muster, trying not to drip anything on the carpet while being wholly unwilling to actually cup a hand under his ass. He ends up with a kind of stilted, short-stepped waddle and is somewhat amazed when Dean finds it in himself not to laugh. Maybe he knows that Sam would kill him. Maybe he knows that more likely, Sam would scoop up some of the jizz still unpleasantly cooling on his stomach and smash it into Dean’s hair.

“Try not to use all the hot water this time!” Dean calls from the bedroom, his voice carrying perfectly through the cheap plywood door.

“Not my fault the motel’s boiler sucks!” Sam hollers back.

He avoids looking at himself in the mirror for as long as he can. It’s easy enough to do, attention drawn to the ticklish drip of come down his thigh, the sticky patch of jizz on his belly. He braces himself on the bathroom sink, arms spread wide for balance, head hanging low. Finally, he takes a deep breath and meets his own eyes.

He looks exactly the same.

The realization fills him with both a chiding, eye rolling awareness of his own childishness  _ (what did you expect, Sam, really?) _ and actual disbelief. But it’s not like mirrors lie. There’s the same face staring back at him, hair gone stringy and starting to curl with the damp sheen of sweat, eyes looking bruised from too little sleep, chapped lips bitten red from kissing.

He looks happy. Wary. A little tired.

He looks exactly like himself, and he shakes his head, cranking the shower as hot as it’ll go while the end credits of some movie he half remembers blare through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say what's up on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


End file.
